"I'm beat," Ur whined, hunching over. Though Tristan could not beat him in a fight, this was one thing that he excelled at: working. Being a child, Ur lacked the vigorous determination to push through a hard day's work. Poor kid had to take frequent breaks to give his little arms and legs a break. Harvesting the wheat crop was not easy work. However, Tristan made sure to pick up the slack, ensuring that they finished their fair share. Ariel only had so long to get the crop ready with only a handful of able-bodied workers. They had to work their hardest if the village would survive the winter.

Sore from their labor, the pair walked along, sharing half a loaf of bread after finishing their day's labor. "Hey Tristan," Ur asked. "You know what would be great?" His older friend shrugged, nibbling on his piece of cheese. "Having a piece of smoked bacon." The very thought made both of their mouths water.

"Yeah," Tristan muttered, wiping the drool from his mouth. Too bad that was a vain dream. Hadn't been a pig in Ariel in years. There was only one cow left. When one died a few years back, it gave a plentiful supply of meat, but no one took any joy in it. Fewer cows meant less milk, and everyone knew a cow's milk was far more valuable than its meat. "If only we could leave," Tristan mused to himself.

"What was that?" Ur asked.

He sighed. "Nothing. Wishful thinking." A silence fell on them as they walked along. It wasn't often that they had nothing to say. Whenever it happened, Tristan never knew how to break the silence. All he could do was keep his mouth shut and try to think of something, a task he always failed. Ur did not need such time and always found a way to pick up the conversation again.

"Tristan," Ur asked. "Do you know what it's like outside of Ariel?"

He sucked his teeth together, realizing that the child had heard him. Did he want to continue this conversation? "Course not. No one does."

"Herodotus does."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

He said it with such pure innocence that Tristan caught himself before he said something he would regret. No matter what, he could not say that. Not in front of him. "You're right," he said as a shadow fell. "Why wouldn't you?"

"If we could leave, what would you do?" Ur asked without missing a beat.

It was only now that Tristan realized they were standing underneath the gentle shade of the Tree of Prosperity. The ever-watchful eyes of Prospero bored into him. Tristan shot the child a look, hoping to drop the subject. Ur returned a hopeful smile, unaware how uncomfortable his friend was. If it will make him happy, a little voice said. At last, he gave in.

"I'd join the caravan," he answered.

"Really? Why?" Ur exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in excitement.

"They get everything the world has to offer. Never staying in one place too long. Travelling from country to country. Seeing the world. Don't need to worry about food because just some wares and get whatever you want."

He stopped short, feeling a sudden longing pulled at his heart. Was this the first time he ever put this childhood dream into words? It wouldn't surprise him. In Ariel, home of the patron god Prospero, dreams were as empty as air. Still, in some strange way, saying it aloud gave the dream a form. Never in his life had it felt so real. No, don't even think about it. That will never happen.

Ur kept staring at him, waiting for more. Tristan said no more. The less he said about his dreams, the better. With a nervous cough, he asked, "What would you do?"

"I'd fight in a tournament," he blurted, flexing his muscles in what he thought was a menacing pose. All he looked like was a little fellow hunching over from a stomach ache. "With my trusty sword, I beat anyone who challenged me. The entire world would know my name."

Tristan smiled. It was fake. He could not bring himself to say what needed to be said. "Hey, look," the child exclaimed, pointing. From the opposite direction, a young couple approached the statue with their heads bowed. On the left was Elizabeth, a beautiful lady of nineteen. She marched in a dingy white robe. Her fair hair was in an elegant braid that ran down her back. She held a scroll in one of her porcelain hands and a small dish in the other. Steam rose from the dish. On the right was her husband, Zechariah, a man of thirty, with his balding head making him appear far older. He approached in darker clothing with a dark untrimmed beard trailing down the front of his shirt. He held a smoking urn, where sweet smelling perfume wafted about them, which Ur wrinkled his nose at. In his other hand, he grasped a small cup.

Their march ended in front of Prospero's statue. Kneeling together, they placed the cup and dish amongst the overgrown grass. Elizabeth opened the scroll, reading out the same words that she had the day before, which many women read before her. Tristan didn't understand why she couldn't recite the scroll at this point. He knew the words by heart and he didn't have to read them.

"Oh great Prospero," Elizabeth read. "Lord of Ariel. Keeper of the mountain pass. Silver-tongued bard. Giver of precious gifts. We come bringing gifts of porridge and water, as you instructed in days of old. May it be to your pleasure. We beseech you. Hear our prayer and let not your ears turn away from your loyal servants."

Ur stared with the intrigue a child does when he sees a monument, ancient artifact, or family heirloom, though if nurtured he might grow up keeping that fascination. Tristan lacked such excitement. He sighed, with it turning into a groan. "Why do they continue idolizing a statue?" he spat, his voice low enough that he hoped Ur wouldn't hear him. He would find out that the child's ears were sharp.

For as long as the town could remember, Zechariah's family held up the traditions of old, the worship of gods and making offerings to the spirits. Each day they read the same rites, performing the same rituals that their ancestors performed centuries ago. They prayed that the weather would be pleasant, different trades in town would be prosperous, and that the children would grow up healthy. Elizabeth, his loving wife, married into that line. The child in her womb would continue the cycle and as far as Tristan knew, their prayers hadn't helped once.

When the last word slipped from the wife's lips, the husband bowed, pressing his face to the ground, his wife joining him. He recited his prayer, one passed down by his father and his father before him. The words tumbled from his mouth in a rhythmic cadence, one he memorized by watching his father, and when Elizabeth blessed him with children, the little ones would follow his example.

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"Father of Blessings," Zechariah recited. "Bend down your head that you might hear our prayer and see the anguish on our faces. The days are hard. Our bellies hunger for your favor. Show your generous grace on us lowly mortals. May your well never dry that our mouths never thirst. Give us our bread. Let our houses be filled with joy. Comfort us in our times of sorrow. Strengthen the weak, for they are many. We are your people. Let our lives be a testimony to your greatness. We ask this in the names of our fathers and sons to be."

With their ritual completed, they rose, bowing when they stood. Hand-in-hand, they turned away, marching down the road. Watching them go, Tristan's lip curled in disgust. "Wow," Ur breathed, never growing tired of seeing the display. Approaching the statue with slow reverence, he folded his hands together. Standing before Prospero, he spoke a silent prayer. If Elizabeth and Zechariah saw him, they would've shed tears of joy. It made Tristan sick.

Having seen enough, he called, "Come on Ur. We have better things to do." The child didn't move, continuing his prayer. "It'll be dark soon," he barked. Ur kept praying. Huffing, Tristan folded his arms, waiting. When the child raised his head, he turned, flashing a smile at his friend. "What was that about?" Tristan asked as the child rejoined him.

"Don't know," Ur answered with a shrug. "Felt like praying. Zechariah said it's good for the soul."

Tristan bit back what he wanted to say, replying, "I bet he did." There was a slight glint in Ur's eye, begging Tristan to ask him what he prayed. Looking at the child's wonder-filled face, it angered him. This was the result of stories. He refused to ask, turning to leave.

A question made him pause. He would regret hearing it. "Why did the story have a sad ending?"

"What?" he asked, glancing back.

"Herodotus's story," he explained. "It was sad. Why?"

"I wasn't there," he dismissed. "How would I know?"

"But you're older. You might understand."

"They're just stories. No need to think about them too much. It was sad because that's how the story goes. It doesn't have to have a reason," he answered. With each passing word, this conversation was sliding closer to a topic he didn't wish to discuss, especially with the boy.

"I wish you stayed for the rest of the story. Why do you always leave?"

He grimaced. "We've talked about this. Because I have better things to do."

"You never seem so busy to me."

The words punched Tristan. His tongue broke the bridle he had firmly clasped on it for times like this. There was nothing he could do to stop what he said next. "Stop prying, you little brat," he shouted, temper flaring.

Ur drew back, shocked by the outburst. Despite the vibrant flames of childish whimsy that radiated from him, it did not take much to quell the fire. At a loss for words, Ur turned on his heel and ran. Temper vanishing, Tristan gasped, horrified at what he said. "Wait," Tristan called, realizing his mistake, but it was too late. Ur was gone.

"Moron," Tristan hissed, smacking his forehead. Why was he acting like this? Ur did nothing other than be himself. Not once had he changed since they met. He was curious. No point in trying to bite his head off. "What's wrong with me?" he spat. It was then his eyes fell on the statue, a cold gaze watching everything with blank indifference.

If Prospero wills it. People used it as some sort of mantra, something that would protect them from the bad in the world. It was as worthless as Herodotus's stories. He gazed at the statue for a long time, pondering how such silly beliefs arose. "Is this your idea of blessing?" he asked, venom dripping from his voice. Prospero said nothing in return.

"Yeah," he murmured. "You'd say that. If you did exist, that's the best they'd get out of you." Looking around at the dying town, he said, "What god of love and good fortune would let his town fall into ruin like this? If you were real, would you even realize that this town is a wilting flower in the middle of a desert?" The statue watched on, chiseled grin unchanging in the face of this young man's ire.

"Why would you care anyway?" he exclaimed, pointing at the bowl and cup in the grass. "Daily offerings and prayers for no effort. That's got to be a comfy life." Glancing at the porridge and water, it was enough to make him laugh. Food for a lump of rock. His belly growled. A drop of drool rolled out of the corner of his mouth. What a waste, he spat.

A light breeze shook the leaves of the Tree of Prosperity. "Who even knows if this tree's stood since the town's foundation? For all I know, the tree died a long time ago and was replaced by another, only for that one to die and the cycle to continue." Approaching the statue, he continued his rant, "Nothing in this place can survive. Not even the houses can stand forever. We both know there's only one thing that will see the end of this town."

He stopped in front of the statue, where their eyes gazed into one another. "What fool came up with you? Why would anyone in this decaying town think that you have a hand in their slow demise?" His arms folded across his chest in a proud, boastful stance. Taking deep, hot breaths through his nose, he said, "Let's face the truth. All you are is a dumb rock. You can't hear anyone's prayers and no amount of good thoughts will make life better." He sighed. "The sooner people get that, the better."

Never touch the offering. That was one of the unspoken rules of the village that even the less devout followed. Noah, in his drunken state, kept his lips far away from the morsels. They feared divine curses. Tristan felt no such fear. Why should he go hungry while the food got cold? What was the point of this offering? He watched the food before and he knew what happened to it. The revelation appeared when he was ten and curious. Sleeping across from the offering, he waited to see a god appear. When he sat to eat, Tristan would confront him with his problems. He did not sleep all night and found it hard to sleep the next day, as his stomach churned from what he witnessed. No god appeared, but the food disappeared. Wild animals ate it.

Staring into the cold, stone eyes, he wished he could smash it, destroying this symbol of unfulfilled hopes and broken promises, but he thought of the next best thing. He eyed the porridge. "Pity for it to go to waste," he mused, squatting down. In the dwindling twilight, he wolfed down the entire bowl, his own ravenous hunger surprising himself. He tasted nothing, consuming the porridge before his tongue noticed he ate anything at all.

When he finished washing everything down with the water, he stood up and belched. He sucked his teeth, realizing that the meal did little to satisfy his hunger. In Ariel, no one had a full belly. Still, this was the weakest his hunger had been in years. Bowing in a mocking sense, he prayed to the statue, "Forgive me for eating your meal," he said, with sarcasm dripping from each syllable. Just as he turned to leave, something glistened off the statue. He turned back, seeing a dingy gold amulet.

Had that always been there? He wasn't sure, but it caught his eye in the most peculiar way. "You don't need this," he exclaimed, snatching it from the god's neck. It had no appearance of being anything special, but if one could put a shine on it, some merchants might fetch a high price for it. He felt no shame in putting the amulet around his neck, hiding it beneath his shirt. If I ever leave, I can sell this to the highest bidder. Make myself a little bundle and make sure I never see this dead town again.

Looking at the statue again, he murmured, "Go ahead. Get mad. Strike me down. Show me that you're real." Nothing happened. "Thought not," he said with a shake of his head. As the sun set, Tristan's shadow stretched into the distance as he strode away from Prospero with a half-filled belly, thirst a little quenched, and with an amulet in his pocket. Tristan didn't care if what he'd done was horrible or disrespectful, but the day was coming when he wished that he'd avoided the whole incident. When was that time? The following morning.